


Searching for Your Edges

by Woldy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Birthday, Caning, Dreams, Early Work, Established Relationship, Flogging, Kink, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the 2008 <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/hp_crackship/">HP Crackship exchange</a>. This fic is un-betad, I apologise for any mistakes.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Searching for Your Edges

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 [HP Crackship exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_crackship/). This fic is un-betad, I apologise for any mistakes.

Draco woke to the sight of Harry thrashing around and gasping as if breathless. His first thought was that Harry was having a nightmare, one of the regular throwbacks to the days when the Dark Lord terrorised him as a child.   
   
Draco reached for his wand and then stopped, because this didn’t look like a nightmare, exactly. Harry’s arms were stretched above his head and tangled in the pillows. His face was pink and he looked…well, he looked squirmy rather than terrified. Nightmares usually left Harry white and yelling. This might not be a nightmare; it might be something else.  
   
Draco hesitated for a moment since non-consensual legilimency was generally considered rude verging on abusive, but he concluded that what Harry didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Seizing his wand and taking a deep breath, Draco muttered “Legilimens’.  
   
The scene before him was dimly lit and it was hard to make out the details amidst the shadows. A figure was kneeling and chained to the wall while another figure, a blonde, stood over him with wand in hand.   
   
“Please,” the kneeling figure said quietly, and Draco realised with a jolt that it was Harry’s voice. Harry’s body was on that dark floor, his head bowed and breathing heavy as if in pain. “Please,” he said again.  
   
The standing figure was blonde and bore a close resemblance to Draco himself, as if it were a magazine editorial Draco – charmed and airbrushed to have flawless skin, bigger muscles and less pointed features.   
   
The similarity was confirmed when the Dream Draco drawled, “Shut up Potter,” and flicked his wand in a careless gesture that seemed to manipulate an invisible whip, because a bloody lash appeared across Harry’s back.  
   
This was horrible. Recently Draco thought that they’d resolved the old history and the animosity from the war, but this scene threw everything into doubt. Was it related to Harry’s imprisonment in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor? What else could it be?  
   
Dream Draco flicked his wand again, leaving a trail of blood across Harry’s buttock. “I’m tiring of your whining,” he said dismissively. “What do you say, Potter?”  
   
Dream Harry lifted his head, and Draco felt a dizzy sense of confusion when he saw that Harry’s face wasn’t swollen. “Thank you, sir,” Dream Harry replied, as Dream Draco leaned in towards the chained figure, tilting his chin upright. Casually, without a hint of tenderness, Dream Draco kissed him.  
   
Draco pulled out of Harry’s mind and sat up, breathing hard. This was – he could hardly grasp what this was, but Harry’s non-swollen face showed that it wasn’t related to the war. Was Harry really dreaming about Draco hurting him? Why?   
   
The obvious solution was that this was a sexual fantasy of some form, but the scene was too reminiscent of their history of violence for that explanation to be comfortable. Draco remembered cursing ‘Crucio’ at Harry and the next moment feeling his skin splitting apart, his hands scrabbling at the tiled floor and blood spurting from his chest as Harry’s face loomed over him. Surely Harry didn’t want to re-enact any of that?  
   
Beside him, Harry was still rolling around with his arms entangled in the pillows.  
   
Draco leant down and pressed a kiss to Harry’s neck.  
   
“Hey,” he said soothingly, “You’re dreaming.”  
   
Harry’s eyes flickered open and he looked momentarily confused, then blushed.  
   
“Oh, sorry,” Harry said, nestling up against Draco. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”  
   
“Obviously,” said Draco, and kissed him lightly.  
   
This was good. It was stable and intimate, and Draco was working up to the suggestion that they should move in together at some point in the not-too-distant future. This wasn’t a good time for resurgent trauma or hitherto unsuspected kinky secrets that might screw everything up.  
   
“Love you,” said Harry blearily, and then the change in his breathing indicated that he had fallen asleep again, head resting on Draco’s arm.   
   
Draco gazed down at him affectionately and worried away the small hours of the night.  
   
In the morning Draco still didn’t know what to do, which was odd because things usually became clear after his third cup of coffee. There wasn’t an obvious explanation for last night other than a sex dream and while Draco couldn’t really see why getting beaten up would turn you on, there was no accounting for taste.  
   
Of course it was possible that the bathroom and Manor incidents had left Harry with some fucked up association between Draco, torture and bondage, but if that was true then they were doomed anyway. Still, Draco couldn’t help feeling that a wartime trauma would have been evident at some point in the past two years, which took him back to the sex dream hypothesis. He was going in circles.  
   
Draco made several attempts to bring up the subject innocuously over breakfast, but Harry just mumbled and blushed in response. Draco concluded that this probably counted as a confirmation – after all, Harry had mumbled and blushed his way through almost every romantic declaration of his life. It wasn’t incontrovertible evidence, but it was enough to justify some exploration. Harry’s birthday and the accompanying gift seemed like the perfect opportunity.  
   
Whatever Draco might want to spend the night doing, the evening of Harry’s 25th birthday was a time for friends and adopted family. Obviously this didn’t mean that Draco couldn’t be involved – he had helped to plan the event – but it did mean that he was one of a group of people, approximately half of whom were Weasleys.  
   
It was a good dinner marred by substandard conversation and terribly tasteless party hats, but Harry seemed to be enjoying himself.  
   
“Happy birthday, Harry dear!” Mrs Weasley cried, smothering Harry with a hug and then presenting him with a large package containing yet another knitted atrocity.  
   
“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Harry said, grinning. He caught Draco’s eye for a moment and Draco was amazed that this big shiny hero, a man who could have anything, was genuinely excited about horrible jumpers. Harry smiled at Draco, eyes softening, and Draco felt his heart skip a beat.  
   
“Congratulations Harry,” said Luna, making a weird hand movement that was probably designed to ward off some imaginary pest or other. “Twenty five is a very important year according to the Hipplewhithian tradition.” She handed over a small gift that Harry wisely opted not to open at the table.  
   
Ron had clapped Harry on the shoulder, given him a bottle of good whiskey and done his best not to glare at Draco. Harry seemed to appreciate the latter gesture the most.  
   
There wasn’t even an awkward moment when Draco presented his own gift: a silver keychain in the shape of a pair of handcuffs which bore Harry’s name engraved into each cuff.  
   
“They’re charmed so you can’t lose them,” he explained, “I thought they’d be useful.”  
   
Hermione looked approving, since presumably she was aware that her ex-flatmate spent hours each month summoning or searching for his keys. George Weasley looked rather  concerned, but then Draco suspected that he knew what the cuffs were really for.  
   
They Apparated back to Harry’s flat after a surprisingly good cake and several rounds of toasts. Harry wandered into the bedroom, unfastening the clasp at the neck of his robes and Draco stepped in close behind him. It was easy to slip the cuffs out of Harry’s robe pocket and twist one of the links.  
   
The silver cuffs expanded to life size, complete with black silk padding to prevent injury, and Draco caught Harry’s hands behind his back in one quick movement, clicking the cuffs around his wrists.  
   
Harry jerked his wrists sharply. “Get them off!” he said in a low threatening tone that was almost a growl, voice rising. “Let me go.”  
   
Draco reached for Harry’s hands, which has formed into fists, and wrapped his fingers around them.  
   
“Hey,” Draco said softly. “It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”  
   
Harry’s fingers unclenched slowly and Draco entwined his own through them. He heard Harry take a deep, shaky breath.  
   
“If you want to be released, you just have to say your full name,” Draco said in a calm, clear voice. “The cuffs will release automatically. Any time you want. I promise.”  
   
Harry took another shaky breath and said “That’s my safeword?”   
   
“It’s meant to be something you won’t forget,” Draco said, injecting a little snarky humour. “As if anyone could forget it with those fawning medals and biographies everywhere.”  
   
Harry made a huffing noise that was probably amusement and Draco moved, shifting around until he faced Harry.   
   
“If you want to continue then say ‘yes sir’.”  
   
There was a long pause, as Harry held his gaze. Just as Draco was starting to think that this was all a mistake, Harry said “Yes, _sir_.”  
   
It was the same mocking tone that Harry had used to antagonise Snape at school. When he heard that calculated impudence, Draco realised that this might be a lot of fun.  
   
“I’ll teach you not to be insolent, Potter,” Draco said haughtily, and summoned his accoutrements. There weren’t many: a large votive candle, a suede flogger and a cane, but Draco saw Harry’s eyes widen as they flew through the air.  
   
“I think I’d better warm you up. What do you say, Potter?”  
   
“Sure,” said Harry, giving him a look.  
   
“That’s sure, sir.” Draco said pointedly, tipping Harry’s head up and gazing into his eyes. “Address me with due respect or you will come to regret it. Kneel.”  
   
He recalled Harry’s notorious response to Snape on the subject of due respect, “There’s no need to call me sir, professor”, but Harry made no such remark today. His gaze was intent, and he gave no indication of objecting.  
   
“Sure…sir,” Harry answered and lowered himself to the floor.   
   
He was beautiful and still slightly defiant, as if the Boy Who Lived couldn’t bring himself to submit fully to anyone, even by his own consent. Draco hoped that might change before the night was finished.  
   
“Lovely,” Draco said, running his hand over Harry’s lower back and around the curve of his arse. It was the work of a moment to cast the spell that removed Harry’s clothing, which folded neatly into a pile on the chair.   
   
A second and slightly more complex spell caused the wall in front of Harry to transform into a glittering mirror. Draco looked into it and saw Harry’s eyes reflected back at him, green rims against the wide black pupils.  
   
Draco lifted the flogger, aware that Harry was watching him in the mirror, and Harry’s body tensed. The thick, soft suede that made a satisfying thwack without a hint of pain behind it, and Harry relaxed visibly once the first blow landed. Even the hardest blows with the flogger didn’t hurt, which Draco knew because he’d tested it on his forearm yesterday.   
   
Draco swung the flogger again, making rhythmic thuds as it landed neatly on Harry’s butt cheeks, right, left, right, left… The blood rising in Harry’s butt tinted it a lovely shade of pink, and the rhythm of soft blows seemed to be almost soothing. In the mirror Draco saw that Harry looked comfortable and content and he noted that Harry was arching his back to push his arse in the direction of the flogger.  
   
“Having fun?” Draco enquired.  
   
“You don’t need to ask,” Harry said huskily. Draco ran an assessing hand over his bum, lingering for a moment at the sensitive spot by his hip, and Harry writhed.  
   
“Trust me?” Draco asked, and Harry replied “Yes. God, Draco,”  
   
“That would be yes, _sir_,” Draco said, slapping Harry’s backside for emphasis. “Try to remember.”  
   
“Kiss me, sir,” Harry demanded greedily, his eyes seeking out Draco’s in the mirror. “_Please_.”  
   
It wasn’t easy to resist, but Draco was strengthened by his hope that Harry become a lot needier before the night was out.  
   
“You haven’t earned it, yet,” Draco scolded. “Incendio!”  
   
Beside him, the fat, white candle burst into light.   
   
Harry flinched, but only for an instant, and then Draco pressed him forward until Harry was sat on his knees, head bare inches above the floor and his cuffed hands curled into the small of his back. He looked incredibly vulnerable.  
   
Draco lifted the candle, which was pooling hot, translucent wax around the flaming wick, and carefully assessed the distance above Harry’s skin. Then he tilted his hand and watched the hot wax fall in soft, thick droplets, splashing a little as it landed.   
   
“Oh,” Harry murmured, and Draco poured more wax, on Harry’s shoulders and the nape of his neck, on the whipcord muscle of his lower back, in a molten stream that trickled down his spine.   
   
The wax cooled as it fell through the air and then hardened to form a translucent layer over Harry’s back. Draco pressed his hand over a newly fallen droplet and felt the heat dissipating through Harry’s skin and his own, a surge of energy shared between them.  
   
The candle was still burning, the flame bright like a phoenix but dripping wax hot enough to give burns, a far cry from phoenix tears. The flame was a potential weapon, a threat, but Draco’s nervousness eased as Harry arched and moaned beneath him. It was Harry and he was without doubt the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen.  
   
Draco extinguished the candle and pulled Harry upright, kissing him hard. Harry’s mouth was wet and demanding, more lust than finesse. “Please, Harry murmured breathlessly, his mouth against Draco’s neck. “Please fuck me, Draco. I mean, Sir.”  
   
Draco hesitated, wavering between temptation and his best laid plans.  
   
“I’ll fuck you,” he said slowly, pulling away from Harry. “But I want to give you ten strokes with the cane first. You will count them aloud for me.”  
   
Draco saw Harry’s shoulders tighten and guessed that he knew the cane was different; that its blows would sting and hurt.  
   
“Just ten,” Draco said, aware that he was gambling, that this was information based on a dream that Harry might never have wanted to fulfil, might not even remember. “You can say your name at any time and the cuffs will release.”  
   
Harry swallowed. “Okay,” he said, and this time Draco didn’t correct him.  
   
He steered Harry over to the bed and bent him over, as if they were going to fuck but somehow more terrifying and intimate than fucking had ever been. As Draco lifted the cane he saw Harry shift a little, a movement that might have been a tremble, and his resolve almost broke.  
   
Think of Snape, Draco told himself firmly. Think nasty.  
   
“Count aloud for me, Potter,” he drawled, and flicked his wrist.  
   
The cane made a neat arc through the air before landing sharply in the middle of Harry’s left buttock, and Harry jerked away before stabilising himself. There was the faintest red line where the blow had landed on his skin.  
   
“I didn’t hear you, Potter,” Draco said, and Harry choked out the words, “One, sir.”  
   
He could do this. He would have given _anything_ to do this at school. Remember all those lost Quidditch matches, remember the fights. Remember Harry’s dream, where he was flinching under your blows but hard and begging for it.  
   
Draco swung the cane and it struck higher on Harry’s arse, raising a more pronounced line. Harry’s voice was uneven as he muttered “Two, sir,” and Draco let him take a couple of jagged breaths before the next impact.   
   
He flicked the cane again and again, placing the blows with as much precision as he could, aiming for the softest parts of Harry’s bum and – because he was a natural perfectionist – a pleasing pattern of red lines.   
   
It was hard to judge whether there was pleasure mixed with Harry’s discomfort, but Draco knew the pain had to be real for the scene to work. One couldn’t replicate and eroticize a torture scene with merely suede and candles; sooner or later something had to hurt.  
   
Harry could release himself at any time and he hadn’t. Technically, Draco knew, Harry was consenting but he still wasn’t certain whether this was what Harry _wanted_.   
   
Harry counted “Nine, sir” and Draco swished the cane for the last time. It landed across Harry’s bum with a crack, leaving an angry welt.  
   
“Nine, sir,” Harry repeated.  
   
What?  
   
“What?” Draco said aloud, his nasty mask slipping in confusion. “That was-“  
   
“Wasn’t it the ninth, sir?” Harry asked in cheeky voice of obviously fake innocence. “Perhaps I lost count. You’ll have to start from the beginning, sir.”  
   
Draco paused as he tried to un-scramble his brain. Harry _wanted _another ten, he _wanted_ more stinging red lines across his arse - and in that case he probably wanted Draco to play the part. Wasn’t that what the dream was about?  
   
“Am I boring you, Mr Potter?” Draco asked in his most scathingly Snape-like tone. “Or are you incapable of counting to ten without using your fingers?”  
   
“Sorry, sir,” Harry said in the same innocent voice. Draco couldn’t see his expression, but he would bet anything that those green eyes were laughing; he could practically hear it.   
   
Potter was such a brat. Draco alone seemed to notice this and it was abundantly clear that years of Gryffindor indulgence had done Potter no good at all. Honestly, the man didn’t act like a twenty five year old; sometimes, what was needed was a firm Slytherin hand.   


At this rate, Draco thought with a smirk, he might have to beat Potter all night.


End file.
